


no inkling of a scream

by tryslora



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Allison Argent, Community: fullmoon_ficlet, F/F, Hysterectomy, Phobias, Surgery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-05-27 08:57:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15021131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: It isn't just that this is a major change. It's that Allison is scared. Terrified, really. Luckily she has Lydia to keep her anchored.





	no inkling of a scream

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for prompt #281 Survivor at fullmoon ficlet. I wrote most of this fic on Tuesday and Wednesday, as my way of working through my own fears before my hysterectomy on Thursday. I didn't get the chance to finish it, but that's okay, because I wrote most of it, and the act of writing Allison as surviving the surgery was my own way of affirming that I would survive as well. Writing as therapy, right? Anyway. I went back and edited in some more details (after my own experiences) after the fact.
> 
> This fic is basically self-indulgent therapy. I admit this. But I think it also helped, so YAY for that.
> 
> Also OW, but I'm healing and I'm still here. Which is all a good thing.

Allison’s stomach is flat, and it’s going to stay that way.

It’s never going to go round and plump from pregnancy. It might sag and have stretch marks, but they’ll be caused by age and rich food, not childbirth.

It’s funny, because Allison always thought that if they were going to have children, she’d carry them. She’d let Lydia pick out the father, but she’d be the one to go through nine months of hell.

She can’t imagine Lydia pregnant.

Allison presses her fingertips against her belly, tries to feel the edges of her uterus. It’s there, but she’s not adept enough to feel it the way the doctors do. She has to take their word for it (and the results of so many tests over the last few months).

It isn’t cancer. She has that, at least.

But it’s too big, a little thickened. She can’t see it, but she knows it’s there when she tries to bend and twist, and her stomach just seems to get in the way. They say it’s like being a few months pregnant. Ironic.

So. Now it needs to come out.

She’s only twenty-three and she’s going to be infertile. She was only just starting to think about building a family, and now she can’t.

It pisses her off. And it’s a rare thing that pisses her off that she can’t actually fight.

“Allison?” Lydia calls out as the door to their apartment opens. Footsteps along the hall, and Lydia is there, hands on Allison’s shoulders, turning her away from the mirror. “You are not a monster,” Lydia says firmly. “This is not retribution, it is not karma. No god has set some kind of weird punishment on you. It’s science, Allison, and a weird quirk of biology. Nothing more.”

Lydia always has seen to the heart of the matter.

“I wasn’t blaming myself.” It’s a lie, but Allison thinks that maybe Lydia will let her get away with it.

Lydia makes a small noise, the buries her face in Allison’s throat. “I don’t believe you,” she says, words muffled by Allison’s skin. Her breath tickles and warms; Allison stretches her neck to give Lydia more room to kiss. And Lydia does.

“I was a horrible person once upon a time,” Allison murmurs, her hands on Lydia’s where they wrap around her center.

“You were a teenager and so was I. I’m fairly certain that Stiles and Jackson continue to win the horrible award, and no one’s told them that they’ve lost karma points.” Lydia finds the spot behind Allison’s ear, sucks a small mark there under her hair. “They’re happy. And we’re happy, Allison. All I want is you, healthy and whole.”

“I wanted kids.”

“Is that all this is? Because we can still have children.” Lydia turns Allison to face her, reaches up to frame her face and draw her down for a kiss. “The idea of being pregnant doesn’t thrill me, but I could carry. Or we could foster, or adopt. If we really want to make things complicated, we could have one of the boys provide the sperm, make it a true pack child.”

It sounds like the perfect answer.

It doesn’t make Allison feel any better.

“What’s wrong?” Lydia’s tone is somehow concerned and no-nonsense, expecting a response.

Fear coils in Allison’s gut, fingers clenching at her sides. “I want to be healthy and whole, too.”

“Having a hysterectomy doesn’t make you less whole, Allison.” Lydia tugs and Allison goes with her, sitting on the edge of the bed. When Lydia tugs, Allison tucks herself in close to her girlfriend’s side, tries to make herself smaller so she can curl up tight and hide there.

“Talk to me,” Lydia murmurs.

Allison shudders. “What if I’m not healthy?”

“You’re clear of cancer, yes?”

That’s not it. “So far, yes, I’m assuming they’ll biopsy the uterus once it’s out, too. And my ovaries if they need to take them.” Allison picks at a scab on her wrist. “It’s just. Being knocked out… it feels like dying.”

“You’re scared.” Lydia strokes along her arm gently.

Allison nods. “Terrified.” It shivers under her skin, leaves her shaking with the idea that when she closes her eyes, not only will she be torn apart, she might never wake up again.

Silence, for a long moment while Lydia strokes her arm, makes circles on her back with slow, lazy motion.

“I can’t tell you not to be scared,” Lydia murmurs. “That won’t help, I know. But I can tell you that I will be there, and I will be your anchor. And you will come back to me, Allison, because that is what you do. Because I cannot exist without you here. Because you are strong, and amazing, and our story has so many chapters left to write. Besides.”

She cuts off, and Allison swallows back the hiccup of a sob that wants to escape. “What?” she manages to ask.

Lydia leans down, curls over Allison to press a kiss right behind her ear. “I would know,” she whispers. “You are my light, my love, and I would know if you were going to leave me. You aren’t going anywhere, Allison Argent. You will be staying here with me. I feel no need to scream.”

It’s not perfect, but it helps.

Allison reaches for Lydia’s hand, tangles their fingers together and presses palm to palm. When Lydia raises their joined hands to kiss Allison’s fingertips, there’s a soft buzz under her skin. Lydia will always be her true north, will always hold her here in the mortal world.

Allison can’t imagine it any other way.

#

Allison can’t pace. When the time comes, she’s trapped in a bed, wearing a hospital gown that opens at the back, and bright yellow socks with rubber treads on both sides. She has the one plastic bracelet with her name and birthdate, and the other is also yellow and declares her a fall risk.

It’s real. It’s so real, it’s happening soon, and she just wants to get up and walk around. Move.

Maybe walk away.

“Allison,” Lydia says, squeezing her hand, rubbing her shoulder.

“I know,” she replies, but it doesn’t stop the tears from leaking out, or the sobbing hiccup.

Her gynecologist is talking about the procedure—about how they’ll inflate her abdomen with gas so they have plenty of room to work, and how she’ll feel bloated after the fact. How she’ll be positioned tipped upside down, and when she says it sounds uncomfortable he responds that she won’t even know.

It’s not one bit reassuring.

The anesthesiologist comes in close to her, lifts the IV that’s already place on her arm. Lydia has to move back, but she keeps a hand on Allison’s shoulder, squeezing hard.

“I’m just going to give you something for the anxiety,” the anesthesiologist murmurs, and Allison thinks it’s supposed to be comforting, but it only makes it worse. Drugs are going to take away her ability to be aware, her ability to react.

She starts to stay something, but cold spreads through her left arm. She blinks, and the world spins. “Wow, that shit works fast,” she mumbles, and Lydia laughs.

“Yeah, it does,” the anesthesiologist says, and the world goes grey, then black.

#

The room is far too bright when Allison wakes, blinking against the light. She makes a noise, and the lights dim immediately in reaction.

“Better?” Lydia asks quietly, and Allison makes another noise.

She means to say _yes_ , but there’s no word, only a muffled, tangled, swallowed sound.

“You’re still coming out of the anesthesia,” Lydia murmurs. “They weren’t going to let me in until you were fully awake, but I enlisted Melissa’s help and applied a judicious conversation about panic disorder and waking into the unknown. I thought it would help if you had me to hold on to.”

Palm to palm, fingers tangled. Yes. Allison tightens her grip, and Lydia smiles, brushing a kiss against her cheek.

“You can rest,” Lydia whispers. “I’m not going anywhere and neither are you.”

#

Allison feels more herself when she wakes again. There are monitors beeping, and a tube runs from the IV on the back of her hand to the bag on the pole at the back of her bed. There’s still a drip, and she wonders if it’s the antibiotic, painkiller, or just saline to keep her hydrated.

In the end, she supposes it doesn’t matter.

She does feel like someone’s kicked her in the gut, which she thinks ought to be a far less familiar sensation than it is. Unfortunately, life in Beacon Hills means that she’s used to the pain.

She still has Lydia’s hand tangled in hers, even though Lydia herself has leaned back in the uncomfortable recliner, her arm outstretched as she turns her head away from Allison.

She’s snoring softly and it’s adorable.

Allison squeezes her hand lightly and pulls away carefully. She reaches for the call button, pressing it as Lydia wakes.

“I’m still here,” Allison says quietly once Lydia sits up.

“I never even felt the inkling of an urge to scream.” Lydia leans in, brushes her lips against Allison’s. “Do you want water? The nurse left some.” She pours it into a cup, puts a straw in and holds it to Allison’s lips.

It’s cold and clear and it feels good.

Breathing and being awake feels good.

“I’m okay,” Allison says. She shifts in the bed, and feels the pull in her gut, and okay, so, maybe _okay_ isn’t quite the right way to put it. “I’m going to be okay,” she decides.

“I told you.” Lydia brushes Allison’s hair back from her face, twists it neatly and places a hair tie to keep it neat. “I’m not going to let you go that easily, Allison. You’re my love, and I’ll anchor you here. You will always come back to me.”

“Is that because you’re supernaturally in touch with the dead?” Allison asks, and she blames her lack of filter on the dregs of the anesthesia still floating through her veins.

Lydia laughs, kisses her forehead. “No. It’s because I love you, and I would follow you into hell to drag you back. And I know you’d do the same for me.”

Allison can’t think how, but it’s true. “Yeah, I would. I love you, Lydia.”

“I know.” Lydia pulls her chair closer, curls so that she can rest against the bed, her fingers tangled with Allison’s.

Palm to palm. Anchoring.

“I’ve got you,” Lydia murmurs. “Let’s rest.”

And finally able to breathe easily, Allison does.

**Author's Note:**

> You can also find me on Tumblr as [tryslora](http://tryslora.tumblr.com). If you like my fic, you might also like my original fiction at [Welcome to PHU](http://welcometophu.tumblr.com).


End file.
